


My Persian Slipper

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - Ghostlock, AU - different meeting, Affairs, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Brothers, Café, Crossover, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Ghost!Lock, Ghosts, Injured Sherlock, John helps detect, Love, M/M, Mycroft's Umbrella, Potterlock, Proposition, Sacrifice, Scars, Undercover, but happy ending, is really something totally different, making out in alleys, slightly angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the latest and final installment ('chapter 5' - story 5) scars become symbols of John and Sherlock's developing relationship. Like Leonard Cohen says, "A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh." Warning for references to torture - past and not explicit.</p><p>I've created this space for some miscellaneous short fics, mostly created around writing prompts of one sort or another. Each chapter is a separate story - no relationship amongst them. There may be any pairing and any topic. Tags will grow, rating will change from chapter to chapter - Mature as highest rating. About warnings: generally no warnings apply, but check the summary for individuals chapters. I'll comment on anything you might want to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Would Be Satisfactory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a proposition for Greg and he makes it in a typically Mycroftian manner. Luckily, Lestrade is an expert at Holmesian interpretation. This 'chapter' is M/M, Mature.

Lestrade sat down suddenly in the severe chrome and leather chair on the other side of the chrome and glass desk from Mycroft Holmes. Surely he hadn’t heard the man correctly. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, sighed, and held up an elegant leather pocket diary. 

“Yes, you heard me correctly. I said, ‘So, shall we have an affair?’ I have three days between my meeting with Her Majesty on the twelfth and the summit in Helsinki on the sixteenth. I also have a house in Malaga that's quite private. My cook is excellent, and the staff is discrete.” 

“Malaga,” said Lestrade. Nothing else came out. 

“Yes, Malaga. Andalucia? Surely you know it. Lovely this time of year before the tourists flood it.” 

When Lestrade said nothing, Mycroft narrowed his eyes. 

“Or we could go to the house in Gstaad if you like to ski. There should be chamber music in the churches this time of year. We could go to Megu. They have superb sushi, and it makes a nice change from rosti.” 

“Bugger me,” Lestrade whispered. 

“That,” said Mycroft, “is the general idea. Or vice-versa. I’m flexible. Sexual innuendo entirely intended.” 

“You’re serious,” said Lestrade. 

“Indeed. Please, Detective Inspector, don’t be tedious. When Sherlock was last in hospital and you saw fit to lay hands on me to comfort me, I saw your pupils dilate. It embarrassed you to think of me like that, but I assure you that I was nothing but flattered. And I appreciated the comfort. I thought I might have miscounted and that Sherlock had run through all nine of his lives on that occasion. Be that as it may, you are an attractive man. I think you’ll find we have much in common.” 

“That was last month.” 

“I have been occupied, as have you. I have a break in my schedule. As do you.” 

Lestrade didn’t bother to ask how he knew. Of course he knew. He seemed to know a lot of things, Sherlock’s brother. Not surprising, really. 

“Don’t know if I want to have an affair,” Lestrade countered, his voice cool. Two could play at this game. 

Mycroft’s mouth tightened ever so slightly. As Lestrade had learned from reading Sherlock all these years, that was tantamount to major disappointment and frustration. 

“I beg your pardon, Detective Inspector. I seem to have misread the situation.” He stood and held out his hand. “I hope this will not affect our working relationship?” 

“Sit down, Mycroft,” Lestrade said, trying to hide a smile and not quite succeeding. “I meant that I’m not sure I’m interested in _only_ an affair. Yeah, I’m attracted to you. I also like you. Do you think we might, I don’t know, _date_ a bit first. See where it goes? We might have something more than an affair.” 

Mycroft looked down and a faint flush rose on his pale face. Lestrade felt almost sorry for him. The Holmes brothers were pants at relationships, but Sherlock was learning. So could Mycroft. 

“Mycroft?” 

The man looked up. 

“That would be… satisfactory,” he said. He looked down again and leafed backward in his pocket diary. “Would dinner tomorrow night suit?” 

“Sure, if you let me pick the place, pay the bill, and if you agree to call me Greg.” 

“Very well.” 

“I’ll be here at 8:00 then. I’ll let one of your drivers take us, though. I know how you are about security. No complaining about the food.” 

Mycroft’s mouth twitched up a tiny fraction in one corner. In Holmes-speak, this signified great satisfaction and pleasure. 

“And that doesn’t mean Gstaad is out. I don’t know how to ski, but I’m all about grog and rosti and snogging before a roaring fire. You might get that Anthea of yours to start making arrangements. I’d say your chances are good with me. Just so you know.” 

Mycroft actually smiled. It was only the second time he had seen the smile. The first was long ago when they were both much younger and Sherlock had survived his first overdose. Lots of water under the bridge. 

Lestrade smiled back. “I’m thinking a pub night tomorrow. Fish and chips. Lager. Darts.” 

To his credit, Mycroft neither groaned nor rolled his eyes. He was the more disciplined of the Holmes brothers, probably due to his role in diplomatic negotiations. 

“Whatever you say, Greg. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” He stood again. The interview was over. 

“Meeting with the Prime Minister?” 

“Alas, no. The French Ambassador.” 

“Yeah, well, enjoy that. I’ve got a double-homicide in Soho to solve.” 

“It seems a bit heartless to hope that you enjoy it, but I can at least wish you joy of the chase.” 

“Ta,” Lestrade replied. Anthea appeared to escort him out. He found himself whistling softly as she escorted him down the maze of corridors to the waiting car. He began formulating his plan of attack. He’d take lessons from John. John had Sherlock pretty well acting like a human being now. John had also implied to Greg one night when the two of them had gotten a bit pissed at the Two Ships that the sex was bloody fantastic. Something about being in bed with someone who could deduce exactly what you wanted, who picked up on every clue. Mycroft might be a bit more challenging, but he thought he was up to the task.  


~~~~~ 

This began as a prompt at http://alloftheprompts.tumblr.com/: “So, shall we have an affair?” (prompt set #710, no. 1)


	2. Familiars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I'd write Potterlock, but never say never. Mycroft has an umbrella as his familiar. No, really. Sort of. This 'chapter' is Gen / general audience.

“Did you remember your umbrella?” 

“Of course. Last time I forgot it, it rained frogs. I learned my lesson.” Mycroft held the umbrella out in front of his little brother’s face in proof, Sherlock being a budding scientist as well as wizard and inclined to prefer empirical evidence. Then he turned to shake off some of the water drops still clinging to the umbrella’s voluminous black folds. He sat down and furled it to rest beside him. It leaned against the dark, upholstered seat of the train compartment. Occasionally a drop of water fell from it to join a little pool of water on the floor at Mycroft’s feet. 

The train jerked and huffed and began to pull away from the station. Sherlock tried to look out the window, but he could only see vague shapes through the rain that smeared the glass and the mist that blurred the outlines of the London they were leaving. They were returning to Hogwarts after the Yule holiday. It was his first year. Mycroft had been away at school forever it seemed, four years before Sherlock could finally join him. 

“Why couldn’t I bring Redbeard?” Sherlock missed the big Irish setter. He wasn’t sure he liked Hogwarts, anyway. He had made no friends. Mycroft was in another house. He was used to Redbeard sleeping at the foot of his bed at home. 

“How many times, Sherlock? Hogwarts is not a place for pets. You have your familiar.” 

Grenier Petit butted Sherlock’s fingers with his broad head. Grandmère Vernet bred the cats, an ancient breed known as Chartreux. They were highly intelligent and highly prized among wizarding families. Almost all the Vernets and many of their far-flung relatives had them as familiars. Sherlock dug his fingers into Grenier’s blue-grey fur. It was thick and warm and, Sherlock reluctantly conceded to himself, somewhat comforting. They understood each other, but Grenier wasn’t Redbeard. He was, when all was said and done, a cat. 

“Why don’t you have a Chartreux, Mycroft? You’re the only wizard I know who doesn’t have a familiar.” 

“I have a familiar, Sherlock, just an unusual one.” 

The umbrella thumped against the seat. A few drops of water landed on Grenier and on Sherlock’s hand. Grenier narrowed his eyes. A lesser cat would have yowled, but the Chartreux were a stoic and dignified breed. Grenier hardly ever made a sound except under extreme duress. 

“See,” said Mycroft. 

“But why an umbrella? Everyone else at Hogwarts has an owl, a cat, or a toad. You came back from France with that thing before you went to school the first time. I remember.” 

“You can’t remember, Sherlock. You were only two.” 

“I remember. I saw you with it out in the garden, under the stars. I was up in the nursery. It looked like you were dancing with it. Or fighting. It got bigger, much bigger.” 

“Don’t be fanciful, Sherlock.” Mycroft had his nose in a book about herbs and potions and didn’t look up. 

“I’m not. I saw it. It turned into something. I saw wings. And a tail.” 

“Perhaps you were dreaming. It’s just an umbrella. You can see for yourself.” There were advantages to Sherlock’s empirical turn of mind. Sometimes he trusted the evidence of his senses over pure logic, but he was young yet. 

“People say that Great-great-great-grand-père Vernet’s patronus was a griffin.” 

“Do they indeed? Have you learnt your spells for class tomorrow?” 

Sherlock sighed and pulled out a thick volume from his bag and started muttering to himself under his breath. 

Mycroft supposed he would have to tell Sherlock soon. No-one at Hogwarts had put two and two together yet. Not even Dumbledore, although he had looked at the umbrella quite thoughtfully when Mycroft had first come to the school. Luckily the reputation of the Vernets as eccentric had helped deflect him. Sherlock was quite amazingly bright, however, brighter than anyone Mycroft knew but Mycroft. 

The Vernets were usually Gryffindors. Sherlock was more a Holmes and was, like most of the direct line, a Ravenclaw through and through. Mycroft spent the summer before he first entered Hogwarts with his great-grandparents in France, at the castle near Chamonix. They had been astonished, but delighted, when Mycroft mastered the patronus charm. They had never known it to happen so early, with so little training. It was even more unusual to have a griffin as both patronus and familiar; almost unheard of, in fact, but not quite unprecedented in the family. His great-grandparents, grandparents, and parents had met for days, trying to figure out what it meant. In the end, they decided simply to send him to Hogwarts and see what happened. 

Aram was amused by it all. It was the griffin himself who suggested the umbrella appearance, saying something about convenience of carry and not scaring the daylights out of everyone. Mycroft, not wanting to be singled out too early in his wizarding career, agreed. 

He would introduce Sherlock to Aram. Soon.  


~~~~~  


From a prompt here http://wonderfulwritingprompts.tumblr.com/ - This was the dialogue prompt:  
#192: "Did you remember your umbrella?"  
"Sure did. Last time I forgot it, it literally rained frogs. I learned my lesson."


	3. Don't Abandon Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the latest installment ("chapter" 3) Sherlock is a ghost. Not warning for Major Character Death because I'm telling you up front and his death is past and not recalled in an angsty way. It's Gen. John helps Sherlock solve his own murder.

**ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE**

John Watson looked down at the message written on the kitchen table in scraps of torn newsprint. He recognized the headline typeface from _The Sun_ in “Abandon” with the edge “n” raggedly torn off. Probably from some story about an abandoned body somewhere, knowing that paper's sensationalism. They were all huge words or letters, torn from tabloid headlines. He was wondering where the “ye” had come from when the landlady stepped around in front of him. She swept up the bits and pieces into her apron. 

“What was that about then?” 

She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “My last tenant was an eccentric. Poor boy. I haven’t cleaned everything up yet.” 

“Poor boy?” John couldn’t help but be curious. 

“Sherlock his name was.” 

“Was?” 

“Overdose.” 

Suddenly something crashed in the lounge. 

“Well, they _say_ it was an overdose at least,” Mrs. Hudson continued, her voice strangely nervous. 

John turned and went back into the lounge, the elderly lady trailing behind him. He thought he heard her sigh. 

A side table that had stood beside a comfy-looking chair before the fireplace was now lying on its side, a couple of books scattered on the floor. John was sure it had been upright when they had looked over the lounge just a minute ago. He was hoping to rent the flat, the only one in central London he could hope to afford after weeks of searching. 

They both stood looking at the table for a moment. John leaned heavily on his cane. His leg was hurting after climbing the stairs. 

“I suppose you won’t be wanting the flat now.” 

“When did he die?” 

“Almost two years ago. I loved him like a son. I’ve kept the flat empty until now, but I thought it was time.” 

“Mrs. Hudson, do you by chance think this flat is haunted?” 

“I don’t think. I know, dear. I was just hoping he’d let someone move in. You seem so nice, and having been a soldier and being a doctor I thought the death part might not bother you so much. He must be lonely, and he’s really a sweet boy. Not violent, nothing like that. He just leaves messages.” 

John thought about it. The message was sort of funny and a bit erudite. Dante. 

“I’ll take it.” 

“You will?” 

“Why not? I know what I’m getting into after all. What harm can messages do?” 

He moved his paltry belongings in that very day from the depressing bedsit where he’d been living. 

~~~~~  


True to Mrs. Hudson’s word, nothing horrible woke John that night. No ghostly form, no moaning, no screeching. 

When he got out of the shower the next morning and started to open the vanity to get out his razor, however, he paused. 

**NOT OVERDOSE** Capital letters, written on the steam-fogged mirror. John didn’t bother doubting the evidence of his own senses. There was a ghost. 

“Look, I’m happy to share the flat. You seem polite enough. I’m assuming you can see and hear me, but that you can only communicate the way you have up to now. Can't vocalize, I mean. Just write ‘yes’ or ‘no.’” 

Gradually a somewhat crooked **YES** appeared. Well, that was about in equal measures thrilling and creepy. He was living with a ghost. 

“I’m a doctor. I know junkies lie all the time. I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you saying it wasn’t an overdose?” 

The mirror’s surface was full, however. John waited a moment, but there was no response that he could see. He shaved, dressed, and made breakfast. The new flat was wonderful. He was actually grateful to the ghost. Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson had said his name was Sherlock. He was grateful to Sherlock because he was the reason the rent was so low for a spacious flat in central London. He could haunt away as far as John was concerned. 

Things definitely seemed to be going his way. He now had a flat and today he had a job interview at a clinic. He finished breakfast, grabbed his cane, and laboriously made his way down the stairs. 

~~~~~  


John returned victorious. He had secured a part-time job at a decent clinic not far from the flat. He had celebrated by buying a takeaway from the Chinese down Baker Street. He went into the kitchen to put it down before making some tea. 

**MURDER CALL NAMES** was spelled out in thick, crooked lines of elbow macaroni pieces all over the top of the table. John looked down at the floor where the empty box that had held the pasta rested, torn and mangled, beside one of the table legs. 

John sighed and turned to put his kung pao pork on the counter beside the sink. He limped back down the stairs and knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door. 

“He’s leaving messages, like you said. I’ve brought in Chinese. Want to come up and share it and tell me about him?” She did. 

Mrs. Hudson made tea while John cleaned up the macaroni. 

“He was wonderful, John,” she said over the eggrolls. “He had problems with drugs, but he had been clean for ages. I met him when he was in rehab in Florida, years ago. He saved me. My husband was on trial for murder there.” 

“So he proved your husband was innocent? What was Sherlock, some kind of PI?” 

“No, dear. He proved Frank was guilty. Mr. Hudson was a drug lord, and he murdered ever so many people. Sherlock made sure he was executed. Sherlock was just a troubled young man at the time. But he was a genius. And he said he was bored, so he dug up evidence against Frank. The prosecutor didn’t want to listen at first, but Sherlock could be very persuasive. Well, anyway, when we both got back to London… I had inherited this house, you understand. I offered him the flat for very little money because of what he had done. He started solving other crimes. He called himself a consulting detective, said he was the only one in the world.” 

“So he solved crimes with, who, the police?” 

“There was a Detective Inspector Lestrade, a very nice man. They worked together a lot.” 

“So Sherlock, or the macaroni at least, says it was murder. What do you think?” As he said it, he reached across his plate and opened the address book. Call names, the message had said. John opened it. 

Two names. The entire address book had two names. That struck John as terribly sad. John thought of himself as a bit of a loner, but at least he had a better populated address book than that. 

“Sorry, what?” Mrs. Hudson was speaking, but John had been occupied in looking down at that one forlorn page. 

“If Sherlock says he was murdered, I believe him. He was a good man. He’d worked so hard to get clean. I was devastated when they said he had overdosed. It didn’t make sense.” 

“So this Lestrade is a detective. Were they friends? Why did he believe it?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. He came to see me right afterwards and asked some questions. I don’t think he believed it either, at least at first. He must have looked into it. They said it was cocaine and that it was suicide.” 

John looked down at the page again. 

“So who is ‘Fatty’?” 

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Wicked boy. That’s his brother. Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock was always teasing him. He wasn’t fat at all, so it must have gone back to childhood. They didn’t get on, but Mycroft loved him. He’s the one who got him into rehab in Florida. If not for Mycroft, I wouldn’t have met Sherlock. I’m sure I wouldn’t be alive if not for that. I didn’t find out till the trial that Frank had three wives before me. Killed all of them.” 

John blinked at that. Well, he had been bored before today, hadn’t he? He wasn't bored now. 

“Sherlock wants us to call both of them. But what can we say? Sherlock is haunting Baker Street and says he was murdered?” 

They both picked at the kung pao pork silently for a bit. 

“Sherlock,” John said to the room, “we know you’re here. We believe it was murder, but we need more to go on. Leave us a bit more to work with, yeah? And wouldn’t it be better just to leave us a letter? Or type it out on a laptop?” 

The teapot that had been resting on the counter crashed onto the floor, bits of china flying, tea pooling on the linoleum. 

“Sherlock! That was my mother’s! I gave it to you for Christmas.” John saw that tears were pooled in Mrs. Hudson’s eyes. 

“Look, mate,” John said, rising from his chair and surveying the destruction, “I know you’re frustrated….” 

Then he broke off. Large letters were forming on the floor, written in tea, smearing out from the pool on the floor. He could just barely make them out. 

**SRRY MRS H NO FINE MOTOR MOR LTR**

Mrs. Hudson was crying in earnest now. “It’s alright, love, it’s alright. Oh, Sherlock,” she said. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock. I’ll check in the morning,” John said. “And don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise you.” 

~~~~~ 

When John checked next morning, there were things strewn all over the floor of the lounge. He recognized parts of a Cleudo game with the board face up and all the weapons and cards higgledy-piggledy near the fireplace. An odd jumble of pens and pencils and a pencil holder and other stuff lay blocking the door to the kitchen. A storm of pages torn out of a… John bent down to look… scientific journal littered the floor near the door. 

Bloody hell, thought John. Tea first. 

“Ok, Sherlock. I’m up, and I see. I need tea first though.” John took silence as consent. Nothing crashed or jumped or moved, so he supposed Sherlock was alright with human needs. He threaded his way to the kitchen, careful not to disturb any of the things on the floor. Just to be polite, he made two cups of tea. 

He brought them back into the lounge and sat one on the desk. “That’s yours. Didn’t know how you like it, so it has milk and sugar.” No crash. 

John walked carefully around the clues. Suddenly he had an idea. 

“Ok, you said no fine motor. But you can move stuff, right. I’m going to put a book on the edge of the desk here. I may ask you questions, like warm or cold, yeah? If I’m right or warm, knock the book off the desk. If I’m cold or wrong, leave it. Let’s see if it works.” 

John went to over to the bookshelves and looked for a smaller book, something easy to move. He spotted a paperback. _Criminal Law_ it was. He situated the book, hanging it a bit off the edge of the desk. 

“Ok. Easy one to start. If you think this method may help, knock off the book.” 

The book tipped off the desk onto the floor. 

“Good.” John picked up the book and placed it back where it had been. “Now, give me a minute.” 

He walked around and looked at the clues. There was a hypodermic needle on the Cleudo board, placed squarely in the conservatory. He thought carefully, looking at the board. He hadn’t played Cleudo in years. There were several rooms, and one of them was a lounge. Mrs. Hudson had told him that Sherlock’s body had been found in this very lounge, a hypodermic still in a vein. John took a deep breath. 

“This bit with the Cleudo board. You said you were murdered. The hypodermic is in the conservatory. So you weren’t killed here. You were killed somewhere else. Correct?” 

The book flew off the desk. John put it back. He leaned on his cane and sipped his tea. 

“Just to be clear. Are you saying you were killed in an actual conservatory?” 

Again, the book hit the floor. 

“This is amazing. You’re amazing,” John muttered as he put the book back on the desk. It flew off again. 

“Wait, I didn’t have the next clue. Oh, you were agreeing that you’re amazing. Cheeky bastard. Well, you are, but wait a minute this time. I need to think.” 

John put the book back on and looked at the Cleudo board again. “We need to clear something up. The syringe. Were you murdered by an involuntary cocaine overdose?” Was it that simple? John looked at the desk. The book didn’t move. 

All right then. He looked over the other evidence, going to stand by the stuff near the kitchen. He realized a lot of the stuff was pens and pencils and a couple of styluses for an Ipad dumped out of a pencil holder that rested in the middle. This had to be a message but about what? 

He looked back at the desk. 

“You were murdered over something you wrote?” 

The coat rack near the lounge door toppled over. 

“I take that as an emphatic ‘no’ and also that I’m an idiot?” 

After a moment, the book hit the floor. John grinned and limped over to put it back on the desk. 

“Sorry, I’m not a genius. Mrs. Hudson said you were, by the way. A genius. Be a bit patient with me here.” 

John looked carefully at the objects. He oriented himself toward the kitchen and looked again. He realized that the pens, pencils and styluses were always arranged horizontally to the kitchen door and that they were in horizontal rows. Five rows to be exact. Some of rows were just pencils, but... John looked more closely and counted. Never the same number of pencils per row. Other rows contained pens or styluses intermixed with other objects. This must have taken Sherlock all night to do, but he guessed ghosts didn’t sleep. 

What the hell did it mean, though? He looked again. If it wasn’t about writing, what did the pencils and pens mean? They were so carefully horizontal. That must have been difficult for him to do. They looked like… dashes. Oh. Oh! The other objects were all round. The pencil cup. A tennis ball. A mug. A paperweight. Round. Dots. Jesus. 

“Morse code,” he shouted jubilantly. “You wanker! It’s bloody Morse.” 

The book flew off the desk. 

John almost ran to the desk to get a bit of paper and a pen. He didn’t notice that he had dropped his cane to the floor and that he was no longer dragging his bad leg. 

He walked back to the objects and dredged up Morse from his memories of patrols in Afghanistan. 

Pencil, pencil. Dash, dash. **M**. Second line was three pencils. Three dashes. **O.**

The next row was the pencil cup, a stylus, and the tennis ball. Dot, dash, dot. **R.**

Then the mug and a pen. **A.**

Finally, pen and the paperweight. Dash, dot. **N.**

John looked at the paper. **M.O.R.A.N.**

Hopefully, Sherlock hadn’t gone to all this trouble to misspell “moron,” referring to John. It had to be a name. If Sherlock had gone to this much trouble, John was almost sure it was a name, and it was the name of his murderer. 

“Moran. Sherlock, the person who murdered you was named Moran.” 

The book hit the floor. Christ, thought John. He put the book carefully back on the desk. 

“You’re lucky I don’t have to go into the clinic today,” he said. “So you were murdered by somebody named Moran. You were killed in a conservatory somewhere and your body was brought here. There was cocaine in your bloodstream, but Moran did that to make it look like an overdose. Something else killed you. Right so far?” 

The book slid off the desk. John gently put it back. 

“OK, so far so good. Or bad. Bloody hell, you really were murdered,” said John. “Now for the how.” 

He walked over to the pages ripped from the journal. They were from the BTS, the _British Journal of Pharmacology and Toxicology_. John remembered it from med school. He bent down and looked through the scattered pages. He finally saw one that looked like the title page of an article. “Acute Cardiac Toxicity of _Nerium Oleander/Indicum_ and Blood Limits in Standard Autopsy.” 

“Oh my God. Sherlock. The conservatory. Oleander poisoning. If they did a standard autopsy, they would have picked up on the cocaine but not the oleander. It wouldn’t have taken much to kill you. The traces would be really difficult to detect. Once they confirmed the cocaine, they wouldn’t have looked any farther.” 

The book edged off the desk. 

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry this happened to you. I’ll call the detective inspector and your brother. Even if they think I’m crazy, I promise you I won’t rest until we get the truth and find the bastard that did this. We’ll get your body exhumed. There will still be traces, however small, now that we know what to look for. Look, I’m going to go take a shower. They’ll we’ll get started.” 

~~~~~  


When John got out of the shower, he saw letters on the mirror. 

**THK U. GIVN UP HOPE**

John felt a strange mixture of happiness, excitement, and profound sadness. Happy that he could help. Excited that his life had taken a very interesting turn. Underneath that, there was an ache in his chest. He wished he'd had the chance to know Sherlock in the flesh. He was a bloody genius. 

John was as true as his word. He convinced an enthusiastic Lestrade and an incredulous Mycroft of Sherlock’s continued existence beyond the grave. The exhumed body proved the method, and all three of them hunted down Colonel Moran who then met a strange and untimely end. Lestrade was sympathetic enough not to look too closely into Moran's disappearance from a holding cell the very night he was arrested. Mycroft turned out to be ruthless where his beloved baby brother was concerned and engineered the demise. John helped, and he and Mycroft agreed, wordlessly, not to involve Lestrade further. They were free agents, he was not. 

Oleander poisoning, conveniently in Myrcroft’s very own conservatory in Belgravia. 

"Poetic," said Mycroft as he and John sat in his study afterward drinking fifty year old brandy. 

John lifted his glass. "To Sherlock," he said. 

"To Sherlock," Mycroft replied. He drained the glass and poured them both another. Anthea took charge of getting rid of the body while they got expensively drunk. 

~~~~~  


John told Sherlock all about it over tea when he returned the next day, a bit worse for wear. Sherlock, unfortunately, couldn’t leave the flat but John told him all the details. 

The next morning, John found bits of newspaper and a glossy page from a magazine spread on the top the kitchen table. 

“We’ve got to work out a better system, Sherlock,” John muttered as he made their tea. He didn’t care a whit that Sherlock couldn’t drink his. Sherlock liked it. It was companionable. 

**WANT TO** said one bit. **SOLVE** said another. **CRIMES** shouted the third piece in large red letters. The red bit was probably _The Sun_ again. The lurid hue looked familiar. Beneath the words there was a large black question mark. **?** Who knew where that came from. 

“Hell, yes. I'd love to solve crimes,” said John. “Time you got back to work, but we’re really going to need a better way to communicate.” Oh. The glossy page from a magazine was an ad. Morse code flash cards. 

“It’s a start,” said John. 

The ad flew off the table. Sherlock’s tea cup rattled. 

John looked at the full page from _The Daily Mail_ resting on the right edge of the table. Front page from yesterday. Two bodies found dismembered in the Melkite Church of Antioch and all the East in Pimlico. Centuries old jeweled cross missing. 

“Well, all right then,” John said. “I’ll call Lestrade after breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one comes from this quote: “I found I could extinguish all human hope from my soul.”  
> ― Arthur Rimbaud
> 
> and this prompt:  
> A ghost can’t be seen but leaves messages anyway.
> 
> Ghost prompts - http://alloftheprompts.tumblr.com/tagged/theme:%20ghost


	4. Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the latest installment ("chapter 4" - story 4), John is recently back from Afghanistan and becomes fascinated by a man who sings late at night in a dicey cafe. This story is M/M - Mature. Alternate meeting.

He went every night after his shift. His shift in the A&E at Bart’s ended at 11:00, so barring a massive pile-up on the M1 or a gang war in Hackney he usually got cleaned up and to the club before midnight. The singer was almost always playing then. THE Singer, that’s how John thought of him. He never learned the man’s name, but to John he was The Singer. His deep smoky voice wove into John’s core, somehow unloosening the tight knots that often threatened to choke the life out of him. Ever since he was invalided home, his life was divided between his cramped bedsit filled with nightmares of blood and sand and death or the A&E job he had been lucky to find, also filled with blood and death. He was mostly at home in both. He had gotten used to blood and death. He kept his illegal Browning BDA in the drawer of his desk. One thing that got him through his days and nights was the knowledge that he could end them anytime he chose. 

The other thing that got him through was The Singer. John stumbled into the hole in the wall café one night when he lost another patient. He knew, logically, that there was nothing he could have done. The man was so young, though, and he reminded John of Lt. Spaulding. Same blond hair and pale skin. Even the same freckles. He failed them both. When he left the bloody surgery bay that night, he thought about getting drunk. That was Harry and his father's chosen route to destruction, though. Better not. He wandered aimlessly for a while, then decided on coffee instead. He didn’t want to sleep because he knew the nightmares would be particularly bad that night. 

Café Dolkabar looked a right dive, filled with smoke and what were probably Russian mafia. Perfect. John ordered black coffee. Someone sang and played guitar softly. He was good, very good. The guitar wove around the low voice in a perfect, intricate flow. John narrowed his eyes and looked around him. What the hell was the man doing in this place? John didn’t know much about music, but the man was astonishingly good. 

He sat perched on a stool with one booted foot hooked up on a rung, hunched over the guitar, long dark waves of hair hiding his face. He seemed to sing to the guitar, not to the mostly indifferent crowd. Something unknotted in John. He sat back and sipped his coffee. When he limped out of the café an hour later, the man was still playing. Later, John managed to fall asleep back in the depressing bedsit. He didn’t dream. 

~~~~~  


John went back to the café almost every night after his shift. He tried to work out the mystery of why The Singer was there. His talent didn't quite fit into the atmosphere of the place. He was also, and John tried not to dwell on this aspect too much, quite beautiful. Occasionally The Singer would look up from the guitar, his clear gaze a striking mix of blue and green and grey. With his dark hair and porcelein skin, he looked like one of those princes out of a fairy tale who had been cursed by a wicked witch and cast out of his kingdom. He had the air of one living in reduced circumstances amongst the peasantry. John shook his head at himself for being fanciful. The Singer was probably just another ordinary git who, like John himself, had fallen on hard times for any of a hundred reasons. 

Tonight was cold and rainy. He dreaded going out again, but it was almost 1:00 AM. This was usually when The Singer ended his set. John drained his cup and ducked under the table to retrieve his cane where it had slipped down to the floor. 

“Yes,” said a deep voice above him. 

John bumped his head smartly against the bottom of the table. Bloody hell. He shifted and used the cane to drag himself up again. 

The Singer stood there, guitar slung casually over his shoulder. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” His eyes were even more astonishing up close. 

“How could you possibly know…,” John started, getting laboriously to his feet. 

“Keep your voice down and don’t be an idiot.” The man's voice was almost a whisper. His eyes flicked over John. “You still keep a military haircut and the remnants of your tan don't reach above your wrists.” 

John gaped. Bloody hell. Then he gathered his wits about him. 

“You said yes. Just now. Yes to what?” 

“Yes, I’ll go home with you. Come outside now.” 

In a daze, John followed The Singer out of the café. The man set off down the street. John limped after him as fast as he could, his leg aching. 

“Wait,” he called, “what…” 

The man turned. “Not here. Around the corner.” 

When they rounded the corner, the man stopped. John, winded, leaned against the bricks of a convenient building. 

The Singer leaned with him, so close that he could feel the man's body heat, smell him. A combination of cigarette smoke, some unidentifiable chemical smell, coffee, sandalwood, male. John felt arousal growing in him. 

“Your limp is psychosomatic, by the way.” 

John reached out, grabbed the man by the shoulder and turned him so that they were face to face. 

“Who the _hell_ are you? How can you possibly know that? What were you doing in that place anyway?” 

The Singer leaned in even closer. His breath ghosted over John’s jaw as he spoke into his ear. “Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. Only one in the world. Case. Russian mafia. Couldn’t talk there. But are you sure you really want to talk about any of that just now?” 

The Singer’s… Sherlock’s… hand went down to lightly cup John’s growing erection. John groaned. 

“You want me. You’ve wanted me for several nights. I’ve been watching you. I think we’d be good together. Bisexual, yes?” 

“Yes,” John gasped. The hand grew more insistent. Two could play at this game. John reached up and drew the man’s… Sherlock’s… head toward him. He mouthed along the white jawline, then softly moved down the long line of his neck. He bit down, tugging on the smooth flesh. A soft moan rewarded him. 

“Army… Christ… Army doctor.” Sherlock’s voice didn’t sound quite as confident. 

“Yes,” John admitted and thrust his erection against the other man’s thigh. 

“My flat…,” Sherlock’s voice was muffled in John's hair. John shivered. Sherlock's arms came around him, holding him still. “My flat is closer. Baker Street. Come back with me?” Some last, hideous, complex knot deep inside John came untied when the arms locked around him. This was insane, he told himself. He didn’t even know this man. He smiled into Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The genesis of this installment is a prompt from http://otpoftheday.tumblr.com/  
> Prompt #263  
> "I have a crush on this person who sings and plays guitar at this cafe I visit everyday and they spoke to me today AU"


	5. No wounds here, just scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like Leonard Cohen says, "A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh." Warning for references to torture - past and not explicit.

**“Children show scars like medals….”**

“That one?” John put in the last stitch and pointed with a latex-clad finger toward a strange scar. It was a row of several evenly spaced vertical scars, small but deep. Sherlock squinted at his naked belly. John was sewing up a shallow knife wound across his ribs. Phyllis Harper, far more feisty than either of them had expected, had pulled an equally unexpected knife and managed a respectable slash to Sherlock’s side before Donovan brought her down and cuffed her. Somehow, none of them had expected physical resistance from an embezzler. 

Sherlock refused to go to A&E, as per usual, so he was sat on the toilet lid while John stitched him up. As it happened, in this, the first year of their partnership as flatmates and crime-solvers, this was the first time he had seen Sherlock’s naked chest and the scars on it. Two interesting scars. Now three if you counted the incipient scar from the knifing. It made John feel rather better about his own scar. 

“Fell out of a tree. Encountered a garden rake at the bottom. Lots of blood.” 

“God, Sherlock,” John said. 

Sherlock smiled. “Mummy was hysterical. Or did I even need to say that?” 

“And that one?” 

“Hmmm,” Sherlock looked down at what was obviously a bullet hole. 9mm most likely. “Classified. Still. But Mycroft was hysterical. Or did I even need to say that?” 

They both laughed. 

~~~~~  


**“Most scars are invisible. Damn transparent knives.”**

Sherlock made it back to Baker Street. Mycroft had sent one of the black cars. It was waiting outside the hall. He didn’t even bother to resist. He took the damned car. He realized he had left his violin behind, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Mycroft would take care of it. 

He let his coat fall to the floor, ripped off the silk tie, and shed the hateful morning suit as he went toward the bathroom. He needed a shower. 

He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Some scars are invisible, he thought. He could see their shadows staring back at him in the desolation of his own eyes. He looked down at his arms, faint track marks still showing up silver on his skin after all these years. He needed. He needed something more than a shower. He turned off the water and went back to his bedroom. 

A sudden pain stabbed his chest as he looked down at the kit. He’d never got rid of it. Lestrade never found it. The pain came again, striking around the heart he tried to deny he had. 

He sighed and reached for the syringe. 

~~~~~  


**“…the scars don’t heal, and it’s too damned late.”**

So Moriarty was back. Or not. The plane turned around. Some sort of reprieve. He was needed, or at least that was Mycroft’s story. Back to London. Back to life. Why didn’t he care? He was so very tired. He was too tired for all of it. He held the phone in one hand. In the other was the last of the powdered combination of morphine and oxy. He had worked it out so carefully. He had not planned to get off the plane in Estonia. 

Hadn’t he done enough? He said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, to Lestrade, to John, to London. To life, at least to any life he cared about. He didn’t want another. He had schemed and used every ounce of intelligence and pull he had in prison to acquire the drugs he needed. 

He was half in love with easeful death. Much more than half. He was tired, and it was too late. But if Moriarty was really back, or if any of his network had survived, that meant John was still in danger. 

He handed the list to Mycroft, not bothering to tell him that it was slightly inaccurate. He hadn’t gotten to the last hit. And it was too damned late. 

~~~~~  


**“A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.”**

“What happened there?” John’s voice was strange. He had been very quiet as he stitched up the deep cut on Sherlock’s back where the hunting knife had sliced through the right trapezius. The cut went through an older scar. 

Sherlock didn’t answer. John hadn’t seen his back since Serbia. Sherlock had hoped he would never see it. He tried to go to A&E. John was always wanting him to go to A&E, but the one time he would have gone willingly, John refused to wait until the ambulance got here. Moran had caught them in Baker Street and managed to do quite a bit of damage before John shot him. Sherlock was losing a lot of blood, so after John called the ambulance he insisted on starting stitching the worst of the wounds while they waited. Sherlock never should have agreed, but he was light-headed. 

“Sherlock. Where did you get this scar? Your back… It’s…” 

“A mess?” Sherlock kept his voice was deliberately even. “Yes. It happened while I was away.” 

“It looks like…” Sherlock straightened up and looked at the bathroom wall. 

“Sherlock. It looks like… torture. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” 

“It’s just scars, John. It happened. It’s over. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Don’t _worry_ about it. Don’t… Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Where?” 

“Serbia. I was captured in Serbia before I could get back.” 

John carefully put down the surgical scissors and the ends of the black sutures he had just clipped on the edge of the sink. Then his hand came to Sherlock’s back. His fingers gently probed the scars. Sherlock could feel his fingers hesitate on the row of small, round ones. Cigarette burns. The ones from the cigars were on his legs. John couldn’t see those. Then the electrical burns. They were still red after all this time. Then he felt John’s fingers tremble as they traced the long, thin, white scars wrapping his ribs from back to front. Whip marks. He felt dizzy. 

John’s hands stilled, but didn’t leave his back. He heard John take a shaky breath. 

“For me. These were for me.” 

Sherlock remained silent. He didn’t move away. He didn’t trust himself to move. 

“Just scars, John,” he finally said. 

John moved around him, slowly. Carefully, John knelt in front of him. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” John said, trying to look in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock lowered his head. He was dizzy. He was tired. He couldn’t bear John’s pity. 

“I never asked you to do anything. I’m not asking you to do anything,” Sherlock finally whispered. 

“You should have,” said John. “And I didn’t mean I couldn’t do _this_. Us. Sherlock look at me.” He put one hand on the side of Sherlock’s downcast face. 

Sherlock looked up. What was one more wound? 

“I didn’t know.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Now you do. The ambulance should be here soon.” 

“What I _meant_ , you bloody idiot, was that I can’t be apart from you anymore. You almost got yourself killed. Again. I love you. I always have.” Sherlock snorted, then winced. He hurt. His back hurt. His heart hurt. 

“What about Mary? What about Lizabeth?” 

They both heard the pounding of the medics coming up the stairs. 

“We’ll work it out. However you want. However _you_ want.” 

John leaned forward and kissed him. Softly, gently. God, it burned. It was glorious, it was frightening. 

“It will leave a scar,” he mumbled into John’s mouth. 

“What will?” Sherlock sagged against him. He was very, very dizzy so he couldn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what to say, anyway. Love leaves scars. But that was good, wasn’t it? Weren’t they worth it, in spite of what Mycroft said? 

The paramedics came through the door to the bathroom. 

“Take him,” John was said. His voice seemed faint and far away. “Be careful. He’s my heart, I can’t lose him. Not again.” 

At least Sherlock thinks that’s what he heard before the black washed over him. Yes, worth it, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This originated with this prompt  
> at  
> http://soprompt.tumblr.com/ : "No wounds here, just scars" 
> 
> and with these quotations:  
> “Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as a secret to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.”  
> ― Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game  
> “Everyone always wants to know how you can tell when it's true love, and the answer is this: when the pain doesn't fade and the scars don't heal, and it's too damned late.”  
> ― Jonathan Tropper, The Book of Joe  
> “Most scars are invisible. Damn transparent knives. Does anything cut deeper than love? I need to get some new body armor.”  
> ― Jarod Kintz, This Book is Not FOR SALE


End file.
